One Hundred
by godtierGrammarian
Summary: -— a collection of 100 one-shots. / intermezzo: some things you just can't erase. a look at life after the mirror broke.
1. mother dear

**{ -— one: mother dear** **.** **—- }**

 **{** introduction/death. -— twilight princess. —- link, _mother_ , rusl, uli. **}**

 **{** -— _in which_ one mother once entrusted her son to the forest. generations later, another must do the same.

-— _and in which_ rusl and uli find a child in a fairy ring. **}**

* * *

 **— i.** **—**

 _"and the song is just i love you and always will"_

.

.

.

She is dying.

Blood trickles from a wound in her side, stemmed by a cloth wrapped tightly there. But the crimson stain grows, and with it, her pain.

She and her husband were travelling by wagon through Faron Province when a wolf appeared at the edge of the wood, startling their horse. Her face is pale as she recalls the uncontrolled race through the trees, the horse blind in its fear and panic, the seat bouncing sharply beneath her, and her husband roaring as he hauled on the reins. And then there had been a hillock, one they couldn't have seen coming, and the wagon had overturned and rolled and rolled, and all she could see was a blur of brown wood snapping and buckling, and then green grass on the hard ground beneath her scraped and bloody hands.

The wolf that scared their horse, their now-dead horse, had not pursued them. It had simply sat and watched with its one good eye, peering keenly at them as they passed, not even grinning, as wolves do, when the horse panicked.

If not for the wolf her husband would not be dead, crushed beneath the rolling cart. If not for the wolf her life would not be bleeding out from her, escaping bit by bit, drop by drop, from her body.

But she cannot hate the wolf, a wolf that did not give chase when others would have, a wolf that merely sat and watched when others would have snapped at her heels, her throat, fangs meeting in her flesh. She can hate the horse, the fool skittish horse, but not the wolf.

Besides, her hatred can wait. She first has love to give.

Where one hand is pressed to the wound in her side, the other supports her son, her infant son, who sleeps in a sling around her neck. By some miracle he emerged from the crash unharmed. He didn't even wake. Now he stirs, making soft noises of complaint, but does not slip from dreams. She looks at him with all the love she has, looks at his tiny red face, at his little fists clenched in sleep, the tufts of blond-brown hair poking out from his scalp, the pointed ears that speak of his Hylian ancestry. Looks at every inch of him, though she's already memorized every wrinkle and mole, looks at him because she knows when death comes to take her it will not spare her a final glance at him.

She frets for a moment that he hasn't eaten in several hours, since the day's journey began. But still he sleeps, and she finds she cannot wake him. He is strong as an ox, her tiny son.

Strong as an ox his mother is not, at least anymore. She fears she has broken more than one bone in her tumble, perhaps a rib or two, and then the bleeding, inside and out, will take her. Very soon it will take her. This is why she must make it to Ordon.

A little farming village clinging to the edge of the foothills, it was her intended destination from the start. Her husband wanted to claim a plot of land, there, to make a fresh start in a new place. Having grown up in a small village herself, she had been all for the idea, wanting for her son to grow up surrounded by sun and green life and honest work, away from the gray stone bustle of the city. Now, looking at the sunlight filtering weak through the tree canopy, she fears she won't make it there before she—

Well.

She'll have to get as close as she can. She squares her shoulders and, one hand on her wound and the other supporting her sleeping son, steps into the rippling shadows of the trees.

.

.

.

She doesn't make it.

She doesn't know how far she's travelled. Not far enough.

Her legs gave out on her after a few short hours of travel, and all she can feel now is the throbbing of her heartbeat in her side, where the crimson stain has grown ever larger, a lapping tide waiting to engulf her. With pale, trembling hands she removes her son from his sling and cradles him to her chest, feeling tears spill hot from the corners of her eyes.

There are legends, generations old, that speak of a woman who fled the war and found refuge for her son in the forests beyond Hyrule's gaze. The little fairy children no longer haunt these woods, nor does there exist a tree with a human face, but she finds herself lifting up a prayer to the trees, to the spirits that linger here still, though time has long left them to fade.

 _Please_ , she prays. _Please, save my son._

And she dies, never to know if her prayer will ever be answered.

* * *

 **—** **ii.** **—**

 _"in a magical circle, a fairy ring"_

.

.

.

Rusl thinks he spots a flash of movement in the corner of his eye as he and his young wife Uli walk through the woods that surround their home of Ordon. A blurred glimpse of golden fur, perhaps. But when he moves to investigate, it's gone.

He moves one hand to his sword on instinct, remembering the rumors of a wolf roaming the hills beyond the village. It hasn't attacked or stolen any livestock — _yet,_ he thinks — but the threat is very real. Rusl has had dealings with wolves before — he knows their endurance, their strength, their ferocity. A wolf will not hesitate to eliminate any threat to itself or its pack.

Uli's hand finds his shoulder. "Rusl." It's her way of telling him he's being too paranoid. They're just out on a walk, anyway. To look at the scenery. To relax, even.

So he lets go of the hilt of his sword with some reluctance, exhaling through his nose. "Alright." He takes her hand and tries to appreciate the beauty of the environment around him. Summer is drawing to a close, and autumn is beginning to creep up on the forest, staining the tips of leaves brown and yellow and crimson. The air is still warm, but stirred by a breeze that promises a chill night. And —

A twig cracks nearby. His hand flies to his sword again. Uli's hand finds his shoulder once more, but this time there's a tremor in it. "Rusl?"

He waits, listening. The air is taut with anticipation. Finally, when no beast reveals itself, Rusl lets out his breath and presses his lips together.

"Nothing, Uli."

They walk on. Soon the terrain becomes unfamiliar, though Rusl swears he knows this forest like the back of his hand. But then, he concedes, he doesn't know the back of his hand very well at all.

"Should we head back?" He turns to Uli, but she says at the same time, "Look!" His eyes follow her pointing finger, noticing the flowers that carpet the ground. Bluebells and violets, trembling in the breath of wind. They're almost precise, deliberate in their placement, forming a trail of blue that leads off the beaten path and into the dappled shadows of the forest. "Uli," Rusl starts to call her back, but she doesn't listen, just steps toward the flowers as if spellbound. Uneasy, Rusl follows.

There's something unnatural about this place, something that gives Rusl an unsettled feeling in his gut, as if this is a sacred place where no human ought to tread. Before, Rusl would have had no truck with the supernatural, would have preferred to face any fear head-on, regardless of its magical origin, but now he wants nothing more than to turn back from this place and never return.

But still Uli follows the trail of flowers.

And so he follows.

.

.

.

They find an infant child, asleep and alone, in the middle of a fairy ring at the end of the trail. There's no mother in sight; that is, until Uli rushes past the circle of mushrooms to take the child into her arms. It wakes, then, and cries a little quietly, and Uli just beams.

"He's so tiny," she marvels, lifting the baby so her husband can see. "And look, Rusl," she adds wonderingly, "his ears are pointed, like an elf's."

"It's no elf, Uli." The infant's features are undeniably humanlike, even if there is much to suggest the existence of magic in this place. "It must be Hylian," Rusl decides. He is well familiar with the kingdom to the north, although he hasn't been there in years, and Uli has never been.

Even Uli knows enough to realize that Hyrule is many miles to the north. "He's come a long way, then."

Unsettled by the idea of how the child got here, Rusl mutters, "How do you know it's a boy?"

"I just know," Uli says mysteriously.

Rusl frowns and decides to look for any trace of the infant's parents. After much searching he finds nothing but a scrap of bloodied fabric on the soft ground beside a large, moss-covered stone. It feels eerily like a gravestone, and he manages a bit of a prayer before returning to his wife and her baby.

"We have to keep him," she says, as he knew she would. "He has no one else, and you were just saying how you wanted children."

Rusl looks at the red-faced little Hylian. There's something impossibly ancient about such a new person, a gleam of gold on the baby's fisted hand, a sharp, knowing sort of seriousness in his blue eyes that reminds Rusl of an old Hylian legend he heard, long ago.

He lifts his head and meets Uli's eyes, and smiles, just a little bit.

"What do you think of the name Link?"

.

.

.

He doesn't mention the pawprints he found in the soft dirt beside the rock, or the matching prints that marred the ground by the fairy ring.

In the end he decides it's better not to think about it.

.

.

.

* * *

 **Long author's note below. I apologize in advance.**

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 **.**

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 **A/N: Guess who decided to take on the 100 themes one-shot challenge. Me, that's who. You can blame PhoenixCaptain for this.**

 **A short explanation: You probably noticed some words in {bolded braces} at the top. Those contain the title, the prompt, the game or AU involved, the characters, and the description, in that order. It's probably self-explanatory, but that's the format I'll be using for these. Since I'll be writing for various games, characters, and pairings, feel free to take a look at the information in the braces to decide if you want to read the one-shot. I won't blame you for skipping one or two if you haven't played the game/don't care for the pairing, etc.**

 **Another explanation: PhoenixCaptain's challenge only has one prompt per story, you say? Well, being the over-ambitious person I am, I'm doing two challenges at once. So instead of this chapter's prompt just being "introduction," instead it's "introduction/death." Easy enough. Just wait 'til we get to the _really angsty_ prompt pairings. *rubs hands together maliciously***

 **A warning: This will have Absolutely No Update Schedule. I'll write when I can, even if that means nothing for months and then two or three all at once. I do want to finish this eventually, though. Keep reviewing and I just might. But please don't review just to tell me to update. I will refuse to update just because of you. It will be All Your Fault and everyone will hate you. Maybe. So don't whine, you'll get your update when you get it.**

 **A second warning: These will be as long or as short as I want them to be. This one's about average length, probably.**

 **One more explanation: We get like, zero information on how Link gets to Ordon in Twilight Princess, no backstory whatsoever, so I made one up. Enjoy my rampant headcanons.**

 **Alright, enough rambling from me. Reviews are much appreciated, as are faves and follows (because yes, this will be an ongoing collection!).**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **Yours,**

 **godtierGrammarian**


	2. puppy love

**{ -— two: puppy love. —- }**

 **{** complicated/embarrassment. -— twilight princess. —- [midna, link.] **}**

 **{ -—** _in which_ in the end, midna supposes the best word for how she feels is "complicated."

 **-—** _and in which_ she's pretty sure link just rolled in something dead. **}**

 **[[ -— rated t for some language. ]]**

* * *

-—-

 _"you're staring at the sky_

 _watching stars collide"_

.

.

.

Midna has to admit to herself, he's nothing like the hero she and everyone else had been expecting.

He is anything but glamorous. He wears dirt like a second skin, scratches himself unendingly, and has manners befitting of the country hick he is. To her surprise he's a picky eater, and when he does eat, he does so messily, like a dog. He possesses a lot of doggish tendencies, actually, from the mournful look he gives her when she scolds him to the goofy smile he reserves especially for children and small, adorable animals… and, of course, for Midna. Because he knows she hates it.

Still, there's something infuriatingly charming about him. His knightly attire suits him perfectly and when he wears it, he gives off an air of nobility despite his humble background (and despite the horrible windsock hat, which of course he loves). He whistles when he walks and always has time for a game of fetch with the stray dogs that wander cheerfully through the streets of Castle Town. He takes a fierce, almost perverse glee in riding Epona over jumps. He carries an endless supply of little knickknacks in his pockets, from shiny objects to insects to trash he fished out of the river that he thinks might come in handy later. And he loves, obviously and endlessly.

It's almost maddening, how he loves. Midna treated him like dirt, like a slave, and he'd just gone along with it. She'd kicked him around and shown him no indication that she even cared about anything except her stupid precious Fused Shadows. And yet, when Zant came along and ruined everything, when the Light Spirit's glow seared her skin and nearly killed her, when she was on the brink of death and he had a rock the size of her fist forced into his wolfish skull, his first thought was of her.

Stupid selfless wolf boy.

In the end, Midna supposes the best word for how she feels is "complicated."

Or maybe not that complicated at all, actually. It's just that she's absolutely, positively in love with him and it's far too late to go back now.

Four letters to damn two entire worlds, she thinks darkly.

.

.

.

It's never going to come to anything. He's a Hylian, and she's a Twili; not just a Twili, either, the Twilight Princess herself! What would her fussy advisors say if she told them she was in love with a farm boy from the light?

The truth is, though, that Midna doesn't give a damn about her advisors (she's been planning on replacing them for a long time, actually) or about the rampant excuses that keep flying up to impede her feelings.

She's just scared, is all.

Scared she'll be stupid enough to let it show, that he'll find out about it and tell her he doesn't feel the same — or worse, that he does! What would she do, then? This isn't her world. She doesn't belong here, and he doesn't belong in the twilight, it just doesn't work.

There are days she's embarrassed she frets so much about this. It's just a crush, she tells herself. A stupid little girl crush. You'll get over it.

Then she wakes up and knows it's ultimately more complicated than that.

.

.

.

She hates returning to Castle Town.

Not for all its crowds and bustle; not for the shady characters looming in shadowed alleys (she could take _them_ down easily); not even for the bumbling guards who clutch their spears with shaking knees or a yawn, those useless soldiers.

No, she hates returning to Castle Town because of the looming amber barrier that surrounds Hyrule Castle, a symbol of her failure; because Zelda gave up everything to save her and now Midna's walking right past the place of her sacrifice and has no clue how to save Zelda in return. It's an ugly reminder of the stakes that are up against them, of how fragile a balance both their worlds hang in.

And Link — poor, dear, sweet, _infuriatingly dense_ Link — can't seem to understand this.

To him, Castle Town is games and kittens and whatever the hell is going on inside that newly-opened Malo Mart in the square. To him, Castle Town is people and food and those stupid girls giggling outside the STAR tent.

That's not to say Midna doesn't appreciate the good things about the city. Cheating that cad Purlo out of a shiny orange rupee every now and then is a delight (she loves watching him sputter in frustration before hissing never to return, which is why she always reminds Link to return). And Telma and her Resistance always have hints on where to go next (except for Rusl, of course, who's always "gathering information"). But it's just hard, to come back and not do anything.

It's complicated, is what she's trying to say.

Because Link knows what Zelda gave up for this, for them. He saw it with his own, two wolf eyes. Even Midna, who had been dying at the time, had seen it.

So why is it that whenever he comes to Castle Town all he wants to do is goof off?

Maybe it's just that princesses forget what it's like to be young and carefree, sometimes.

.

.

.

"No." She folds her arms and puts on her best Unyielding Princess face.

"Midna, come on," Link pleads. "It'll be funny."

"It'll be stupid, that's what it'll be!"

He pouts a little. "It's not stupid."

"Yes, it is." The Unyielding Princess face wavers a little; she hopes he didn't notice.

"Come on, Midna. Just this once?" He puts on his best Adorable Puppy face. "Please?"

"No. And stop with the puppy eyes, you know that doesn't work on me." She knows damn well it works on her, but she's not about to let him know that.

" _Midna_..." Adorable Puppy shifts to "I'm Going to Die if You Don't Say Yes" Puppy. Must be part of being a dog. Wolf? Sacred beast? Whatever the hell he's supposed to be, he's an infuriatingly adorable one. Even as a human.

Midna groans, knowing she's going to regret this. " _Link_..."

The Puppy Face persists. The Unyielding Princess yields.

"Alright, fine. Fine, you idiot. But I'm going to regret this and you're going to owe me."

He doesn't care. If he were in his wolf form he'd be wagging uncontrollably, and he'd probably try to lick her face.

Which he promptly does when she transforms him so they can warp.

And she hates it (or does a good job of looking like it), with as much dignity as anyone can when their face is sticky from overenthusiastic dog kisses.

...Stupid adorable wolf boy, anyway.

.

.

.

She folds her arms and tries to maintain as much dignity as she can while he bounds through the main square of Castle Town with a look of maniacal glee on his wolfish face. People scream, crowds take for cover, and kittens appear out of the woodwork to follow him around mewling excitedly.

He loves this. Since he's a hero, she tries to limit how often he gets to terrorize the people he's supposed to be saving, but the schmucks in the town either don't know or don't care about the plight of their princess (honestly, don't they notice the hugeass golden barrier surrounding their castle?), so Midna supposes stirring them up a little can't hurt. She always puts her foot down when he asks to transform in the middle of the square, though. Empty it may appear, but someone could be watching from the windows, and seeing a beast become a man might bring out the torches and pitchforks. Not exactly what they need, considering all the monsters that gladly attack them on sight. Besides, it's better the people don't know.

She leans back and yawns as Link runs circles around the fountain in the square, scaring off anyone who wanders in. One guard stands his ground, pointing his quivering spear at them whenever they pass. There were five soldiers here, a while ago, but then they all turned tail and fled at the sight of Link's admittedly intimidating canines. A little later this lonely guy came out, clutching his spear like his life depended on it; he must've drawn the short straw. Link obligingly snaps at him a few times until he, too, flees screaming.

"Alright, are you done here?" Midna mutters, tugging on his ear. He looks at her and shakes out his fur before letting his tongue loll out; a doggish way of saying, "Yeah, I guess."

They head out of town through the southern gate, where they recline in the grassy area there. Night has fallen, and Midna watches with some wonder as little lights stab through the inky black of the sky, like flickering pinpricks in a black cloth. Her world doesn't have stars. It doesn't have a lot of things, actually, when she thinks about it. No trees with emerald leaves that catch the light, dappling the ground. No birdsong, unless you count the frantic tuba noises kargaroks make. No patches of clover with little bees bumbling around the blossoms; she remembers the first time Link dared her to find a four-leafed one to take her mind off the ever-present stress of finding Twili artifacts, how he'd laughed at the concentration on her face, and how, when she'd finally found one, she kept it hidden in her fist until it wilted.

Yeah, this world isn't too bad. It's not home, but it isn't too bad.

As she watches the sky Link lies behind her, licking his paws, taking special care to clean the fur around the shackle that encircles his foot. Midna offered to remove it once, but he refused. Maybe it's a reminder of who he is now, a reminder of how he can't be the simple farm boy he used to be. The weight of a shackle can't hold a candle to the weight on a hero's shoulders, though.

A silence stretches between them in a way that only a silence between a wolf and an imp can. Midna doesn't bother trying to strike up a conversation, because she's not in the mood to read the answers in his face. He didn't ask to be turned back into a human, so she doesn't force it on him. They can go back to mirror hunting in the morning, she supposes.

The silence continues, broken only by the deafening sound of him licking between his toes, and then the sound of him getting to his feet. Midna turns and looks at him in case he wants something of her, but he stretches and trots around the grassy place, eventually breaking into a bound, and then a run. Midna presses a fist to her mouth to stifle a grin as he trips over his own feet and wipes out in the grass, then rolls around on his back, mouth open, tongue out, eyes closed in bliss.

She's in love with this graceful creature, huh.

He rights himself and trots back over, absolutely covered in grass. Of course he shakes out his fur when he's standing right next to her. Midna huffs in protest, throwing up her hands, but then she smells it; her fingers clamp themselves over her nose and she squawks, "You idiot, you rolled in something dead, didn't you?"

Disgusted, she gets up and floats several feet away from him.

"You're sleeping over there tonight," she orders from a safe distance.

He just grins, pleased with himself.

"You're an embarrassment to heroes everywhere. To dogs everywhere, too," she adds for good measure, and he simply scratches himself behind the ear, unconcerned.

Midna huffs.

Stupid idiot dog hero, anyway.

But that's probably why she loves him.

Four letters to save two entire worlds, she thinks, before she falls asleep.

.

.

.

* * *

 **A/N: Don't try to tell me you didn't terrorize Castle Town as a wolf. I'll know you're lying.**

 **For all of you who were waiting for the inevitable Midlink, here it is. Took longer than I expected, but it's here now, and there'll be more where that came from so buckle your seatbelts.**

 **What other characters/ships do you want to see here? Let me know and your otp dreams might just come true. Maybe.**

 **You know the drill. Review, favorite, follow, whatever floats your boat.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

 **Love,**

 **godtierGrammarian**


	3. she sleeps

**{ -— three: she sleeps. —- }**

 **{** making history/reflect. -— skyward sword. —- fi. **}**

 **{** -— _in which_ he will be remembered, and she will not.

-— _and in which_ that will be for the better. **}**

* * *

-—-

 _"hey there, it's all gonna be fine_

 _you ain't gonna die alone_

 _you ain't gonna be forgotten"_

.

.

.

She sleeps. And in her sleep, she dreams.

She is not human; she never thought to comprehend something as human as a dream, a reconstruction of the day's memories into something new and not entirely unpleasant. Only for her, the day lasts years and years and the dream never ends, for neither does her slumber.

Sometimes she dreams of him. Her Master. A sleep-rumpled boy, ruddy and courageous even in his recklessness, his pulse a burning flame against her hilt, and the sacred mark adorning the back of his hand. He had a pure heart, a good spirit, though he was perhaps a little clumsy in his youth; still, she does not regret that he will one day be reborn, a new flame in a new vessel, and that he will not remember her.

He cannot remember her. It would be an unfair burden on him, that he should remember someone who no longer exists, that he should call her name and she should not answer him, that he should be a Master without a servant to call his own.

He shall remember the blade, its hilt familiar in his palm. The sword shall be like an old friend to him.

But he will not know why.

And perhaps it will be for the better.

She is not human; she cannot sympathize with his passions or his pain. She cannot wrap his wounds without hands or comfort him when he cries tears, things foreign to her. She understands friendship, yes, but she cannot pretend she will ever be human as he is.

And that will be for the better.

There will be others, she knows, to guide him on his way. To encourage and protect and perhaps even love him. To do those things that she cannot. Indeed, they will not be able to inform him of the complex history of the land or the fascinating intricacies of enemy undergarments, but they will suffice, and they will succeed, and she will sleep, and she will dream, dream of the day that he will remember her once more.

Until then, she will wait, and she will remember him.

When he comes anew she will be with him, yes, in spirit, for her sleep is one without end, and whenever he takes up the sword in which she slumbers she will be by his side and he will never truly be alone.

And he will make history, yes, they will tell and retell his story for generations and generations, until the story becomes a legend, a legend of a hero in green taking up a powerful sword; yes, he will be remembered and the sword will be remembered and — she will not.

She will be forgotten. But she will never forget him.

She will eternally exist, yes, slumbering within her sword, and the sword will never be broken, and it will survive, a symbol of his legacy, so the people know he is more than just the man in the myth.

So she sleeps. And as she sleeps she dreams, dreams of days when at last her sleep will end, dreams of the day she will finally fulfill her promise to him whom she called Master, once.

 _"May we meet again in another life."_

One day, a new boy will take up the blade, a sleep-rumpled boy, a little clumsy but eager in his youth, his palm warm against her hilt, and the sacred mark against the back of his hand. He will take up the blade and he will save the kingdom and he will be remembered and she will not.

But, she thinks, that will be fine. That is how it must be.

For now, he must not remember.

But one day, she thinks, yes, one day, she will awaken and she will see his face and he will remember her as she remembered him.

For now, she sleeps. Forgotten, yes, and alone. But not forever.

They will meet again and one day he will remember her.

But until then, yes, until then, she sleeps.

.

.

.

* * *

 **A/N: Fi's story is really sad when you think about it.**

 **I'll admit it, this one's a little short, but I'm not about to argue with it. It practically wrote itself, and I'm eager to get to the next entry. Let me know what you think of it: of the theme, or the length, or anything. And again, feel free to drop some suggestions on me: ships, scenarios, etc. No promises they'll make it into this collection, but they're welcome, and if I do write them you'll see Your Name Here, and that's pretty cool.**

 **A final note: to the Guest who reviewed, I wish you'd've signed in, because you had some pretty great suggestions! They might end up in future entires and it will be All Your Fault... but I won't know what name to call you when I blame you! If you've got an account let me know, and thanks for the input!**

 **Review, fave, and/or follow if you haven't already! It's much appreciated!**

 **Your friend,**

 **godtierGrammarian**


	4. unfinished business

**{** **-— four: unfinished business.** **—** **\- }**

 **{** rivalry/dealing. -— modern au. —- ghirahim, link, hena, zelda. **}**

 **{** -— _in which_ link incurs the wrath of his old high school nemesis and also gets himself a job.

-— _and in which_ his boss turns out to be the last person he ever could have wanted. **}**

* * *

 **-—-**

 _"i don't see no water, but i'm about to drown_

 _i don't see no fire, but i'm burning down"_

.

.

.

"You're kidding." Hena gawked at him from atop the pile of cushions that currently resided in the middle of their tiny apartment, pretending to be a couch.

"Nope." Link wandered over to the fridge and regarded the various curse words they'd cobbled out of rainbow letter magnets. "Not kidding."

She folded her legs beneath her and leaned in, lips parted in disbelief. "You got a job. At Solhouse. And you're seriously not excited? Link, come on, it's Solhouse we're talking here! You know, the one that makes coffee machines? Their jingle is always stuck in your head?"

"Yeah, so? And don't sing it," he added, noticing the look on her face. He stared fixedly at the words, half tempted to do a dramatic reading then and there, just to get the words out of his head, off of his chest where they were stifling him; but he didn't, because it was her and she didn't deserve that.

"So, what happened?" she queried from behind him.

"It's a long story." He heaved the refrigerator door open and surveyed its meager contents. Propping the door open with one hip he tugged a container of cottage cheese from the back, opened the lid, replaced it, and put it back, all mechanical motion. Then, suddenly parched, he snatched the bulk bottle of apple juice, poured himself a mug, and returned the bottle to its shelf with more force than necessary.

"Are you okay?" Hena got up and walked to his shoulder. He stared dully into his mug, then walked to the sink and dropped it in, not caring that its contents sloshed all over the sink and the counter and the wall and the floor.

At once Hena grabbed his shoulders and marched him over to the cushion pile, and he flopped down into it, face first. Hena dropped more delicately onto the cushion beside him, folding one leg beneath her.

"Link, what happened today?" She rubbed his shoulder, but her touch was light, wary.

He turned his face to her. His face ached with the memory. "You remember Ghirahim, from high school?"

She brought her hands to her mouth. "Oh, my god. No way."

"Yeah." Link rolled over and stared at the ceiling. "I ran into him on the street. Literally. Spilled his stupid latte all over his perfect white suit. Now I have to work for him." He sighed heavily. "Of course he works at Solhouse. Perfect little rat. Probably had someone pull a few strings. He was the principal's brother's nephew or something, wasn't he? But man, he was pissed. Demanded I replace his suit. Not like he doesn't have enough money to replace it himself. Anyway, he decided I could work as his assistant for a couple weeks to pay off the damages."

"That's gonna suck," Hena commiserated, pulling an oversized pillow into her lap and leaning one cheek against it.

"Yeah. He hated me back in school. You remember, don't you?"

She nodded. "The whole thing with your ex, right?"

"Right." At the thought Link ballooned air in his cheeks and slowly released it. "That was a mess. I just hope he doesn't kill me before it's all over."

There was silence for a moment before Hena spoke up again. "So when do you start?"

"Monday. 7 a.m. Sharp."

"Yikes. Good luck with that." She yawned and flopped back against the cushions.

"Yeah." Link lay back, too, and she quietly caught up his fingers in hers, squeezing them lightly. They lay in silence for a while, regarding the dead bugs silhouetted in the light fixture.

"It's gonna be okay," Hena said finally. "It's only for a little while."

"Yeah," he said again, not really believing it.

"Come on," she sat up and looked at him, her eyes alight with optimism. "At least now you can put on your resume that you worked for Solhouse."

He barked half a caustic laugh. "Yeah, I guess."

She poked him and got up from the cushions. "Hey, I have a deal for you. If you go mop up your spill I'll finish the new rollgoal level I was working on."

He stared at the ceiling for another half second before pushing himself up, a smile worming its way across his lips despite himself. "Dang it, Hena, you know I love your stupid rollgoal."

She grinned broadly. "Good. Because this one's _all ramps_."

"You still expect me to pay to play?" He wandered over to the closet to hunt down the mop.

"Oh, absolutely. You wouldn't want to raise the stakes, either, would you? Ten to play, twenty if you win?"

"All ramps, you said?"

"You know it."

"...Damn it, Hena, you know I can't say no to you."

He smiled back at her, because he knew she was trying to take his mind off the subject. Because she was Hena, who always listened and always forgave. Because she loved him and was honest about it when she didn't, so much. Because half the fish in her tank were his and she'd bought him a new catfish when his old one died. Because she _cared_ , enough for the both of them, sometimes.

But he knew when Monday came he wouldn't be ready to face Ghirahim, and he probably never would be.

Those couple weeks couldn't go by fast enough.

.

.

.

Monday came, a few hours passed, and Link almost started to think this wouldn't be half bad. The employees were more or less pretty nice—besides Ghirahim, of course, who was a pretentious asshole. He got his own desk (Hena had courteously provided a framed picture of herself), and the break room was _luxurious,_ for lack of a better word.

And then came the kicker, and everything came falling apart in perfectly shattered pieces.

"My boss wants to meet with you."

Ghirahim didn't bother to look at him when he said this; he was too busy picking long, white hairs from his black suit with an air of barely restrained fury.

"You're to be in the main meeting room in five minutes," Ghirahim added when Link didn't reply. "If I were you I'd hurry it up. I understand you're probably too stupid to realize this, but you really shouldn't keep your boss waiting. That's just asking for trouble."

Link dodged the scathing remark as he'd dodged all of Ghirahim's carefully constructed insults that day. Heading toward the door, he suddenly turned and, feeling like he was only proving Ghirahim's point, asked, "The main meeting room's down the hall to the left, right?"

Ghirahim looked up from his suit and stared drily. There was a pause that told Link all he needed to know.

"Other way, then," he decided, and went.

As he made his way down the hall it occurred to him that it probably wasn't a good thing that Ghirahim's boss wanted to see him on the first day. It was also probably a little odd that they hadn't met with him earlier, y'know, shake hands, welcome to the company though you're not officially hired kind of deal.

He swallowed his apprehension and faced the meeting room door, which was closed before him. Then, with a breath that rattled his chest, he turned the handle.

He never could have been prepared for who he'd meet on the other side.

.

.

.

"Link." She said his name like someone would say _garbage_ or _convict_ , and with an appropriate wrinkling of the nose.

"Zelda," he returned it quietly, barely able to scrape out the syllables through the rasp in his throat. There was a bird in his lungs, it seemed, wings beating against his ribcage, and a feather lodged in his throat. Of all people it just had to be his ex-girlfriend. The one he'd—well, _cheated on_ was probably the word most people would use. Not that he'd _done_ anything, it was just that—well. And then the person who had once been his best friend had pretty well beat him up after hearing about it, after jumping to all the wrong conclusions, and then that friend had whisked Zelda away before Link could so much as choke out an apology through his fist-swollen lips. That was why it was so hard to stomach. With Hena, it was easy to banter, to feign nonchalance or enthusiasm, to ask for forgiveness or to give it, but when he looked at Zelda he saw only cool dislike where there was once the brilliant warmth of the sun, and he was suddenly very aware of his sweat-glistened palms, his messy hair, his inadequacy and his failure.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, eyes flicking to just over his shoulder.

"I, uh, ruined his suit. Ghirahim's, I mean." Link swallowed. She watched his Adam's apple bob before finally turning her gaze to his. Her eyes were a desert, no, they contained the entire ocean, overwhelming in their depth, dragging the breath from his lungs. He struggled under the severity of her stare.

"I see," Zelda said at last.

There was silence for a moment, and Link licked his lips nervously. "I, uh, what are _you_ doing here?"

She stared at him. "My father owns Solhouse."

"O-oh. _Oh_." That explained a few things. Like why her house was so big or why she thought she had the right to hate his guts, since her father was such a high-and-mighty businessman and he was just a dirt-poor kid out of college living with the only person he knew wouldn't kick him out for not having a job. Compared to him, she might as well have been royalty.

After a beat, Zelda heaved a sigh through her nostrils. "You said you'll be here, what, a couple weeks?"

"At most." _Please._

"Hm." Her lips relaxed from a frown into a more neutral expression, and she blinked once, as if to verify everything. "Very well, then. I'll be keeping close tabs on you, so for your sake I hope you don't dig yourself into a deeper hole than you already have."

She walked away, and he finally allowed his shoulders to sag in exhaustion. Every conversation with her was an interrogation; it was emotionally draining, and Farore help him, if he made one mistake she'd be at his throat in a heartbeat. Even here, even now, she hadn't wanted an explanation or an excuse, hadn't offered a modicum of an indication that she was ready to listen or forgive. Not that he wanted it, not anymore. He had Hena now, didn't he? So why, then, did he still feel he _owed_ Zelda something?

He dragged a hand across his face, his breath escaping him deeply.

He never wanted to see a coffee machine again so long as he lived.

.

.

.

 _to be continued_

* * *

 **A/N:** **Let's see if I actually continue this. There's a lot of unexplained backstory and unresolved plotlines so I think I'd better wrap it all up sometime. Maybe not soon, but hopefully later.**

 **If you're lucky you'll get another one this week. Throw me a review, some encouragement, and you might just get two. Seriously though, let me know what you think! As its author I can't objectively judge if I just churned out a piece of crap or a masterpiece, so you tell me.**

 **Special thanks to Imagination that for the idea!**

 **Dutifully,**

 **godtierGrammarian**

 **p.s. I'm renaming this chapter 'unfinished business' and you can't stop me.**


	5. take my hand

**{ -— five: take my hand.** **—- }**

 **{** unbreakable/thrilled. -— modern/apocalypse au. —- [ganondorf, zelda.] **}**

 **{** -— _in which_ the world has fallen to pieces once more.

-— _and in which_ for once he's the one helping her put it back together. **}**

* * *

 _"see the oceans rise and leave the nations_

 _crying at heaven's door"_

.

.

.

All around him the sidewalks were burning, but his hands were cold.

It was not his fault, this time, that the world had fallen to pieces. The Goddesses themselves had taken that task into their own hands, as a number of successive disasters rent the earth into so much rubble. No one expected it, really; there had been centuries of peace since the last time a conqueror had laid waste to their land, and always there was a hero ready to smite him down.

Not so this time. Perhaps the people were blasphemous to anger their gods, preferring to huddle around their various technological deities than to raise their hands in supplication to the glorious three who created them. That was but mere hogwash favored by pious hypocrites, of course, but there were some who considered it.

He, on the other hand, knew exactly why the world had to be destroyed. For the sake of balance. Through war and chaos, the world rebuilt itself. It was a cycle of rebirth, not unlike the one assigned to the champions of the goddesses. Not all remembered who they once were, but he—he remembered every bit of it. Every drop of blood shed in pursuit of dominion, every ragged breath drawn from lungs pierced by a sacred sword. Every life lived he recalled, even ones others had forgotten.

To one who had lived so long ago, the last few centuries had all but transformed the world he'd once known into a new, foreign place. Gone were the forests and the sweeping deserts, the empty land as far as eye could see. Here were the cities, crowded with people; the streets, lined with towering structures that scraped the sky. And here were the robots, the golems and other artificial lifeforms; technology of ancient times that had cycled itself back into everyday life. Here were cars and televisions and refrigerators and life-support machines; hardly frivolous advances. He wondered how many of his people could have been saved with these new technologies.

Of course the disasters wiped it all away again, and once more people were left to die. He felt no pity for them, however; to him, it was the justice he'd desired for so long.

Still, it was odd to him not to be responsible for this destruction; strange that he, too, had to face its consequences instead of the benefits; that he ought to scrape for every meal instead of sitting on a gilded throne overseeing it all. What was stranger was that he felt no compulsion to rush in and seize power while it was ripe for the picking. Of course, by now all forms of government had more or less proven themselves obsolete (politicians running for their underground bunkers squealing like fatted hogs), and the only semblance of authority to be had now resided with the heads of the gangs that roved across the land. But still, in any other life he'd have had at least two underlings by now, and some grandiose plan to capture the goddesses' chosen children and do away with them in some deliciously painful manner.

But he didn't. He had no plan, no followers, no desire for revenge burning in his lungs, smoke in his throat. All he had was an empty slate of a future and a pack strapped heavily across his shoulders.

And though part of him was loath to admit it, he almost liked it, this new kind of freedom.

.

.

.

On the seventh day after the end of the world, when he wandered into the remains of the downtown area of the former capital, he found _her_.

Her battered little white car was parked haphazardly against the curb in front of what used to be the headquarters for a charitable organization, and she was pulling cardboard box after cardboard box from her trunk, stacking them precariously on the cracked street. From these boxes she produced canned food and water purifiers and scarves and mostly-clean stuffed toys, and, smiling, she pressed them into the hands of the people who inevitably gathered around her like moths to a light.

It was obvious she was Nayru's chosen. Her hair, fluttering around her face like a curtain of gold. Her eyes, like twin sapphires on a porcelain face. And her kindness, her tenacity. She almost looked overjoyed at the opportunity to help her people. When the land itself broke, she remained unshaken, without even a waver in her smile.

He found that a little annoying, if he was to be quite honest with himself. It was the same stubborn duty, the same overbearing care she felt for her country, that always kept her rising up against him. He remembered her face, sharp as broken glass, the light from her sacred arrows casting shadows on her skin as she pulled the bowstring taut.

Zelda.

He watched her from a distance, half expecting the hero to come crashing in to gut him with a sword, or maybe he'd have a gun, these days. It would be interesting to shake up the old formula. It might even be a challenge.

But no hero appeared, and he was, at least, grateful for this.

When the line of people finally dispersed, Zelda hefted the boxes back into her car and wiped her hands on her jeans before finally looking over at him. If she recognized him she made no indication of it, just made her way around the car, got in the driver's side, and drove off.

He watched her go and it felt a bit like failure.

.

.

.

He met her again several weeks later. Her face was red from sun and muddied with dirt, and her unwashed hair had been chopped to her chin and crammed into a baseball cap so faded it might have been blue, once. There was no sign of her car; no children trailing after her in the hopes of a handout, and her pearl earrings were missing.

She recognized him, this time.

"Ganondorf," she said, facing him with fingers fisted. The wind whipped her hair into her face and she impatiently hooked a strand out of her mouth.

"Do you understand now?" he asked, staring down at her. "Do you now realize that you cannot feed your people unless there is food, cannot keep them alive without medicine or water? Do you not yet understand what it is like to watch your kingdom suffer at your hands? The feeling that you can do nothing to help them unless you find these things and take them for your own?"

Her face was grim. "I would do anything to save them."

"I said the same, little princess," he replied softly.

She was silent, then answered, "But I am not like you." He readied himself for a recitation of all his faults, but instead she went on, "I am powerless." He stared in disbelief, and she closed her eyes briefly before going on, "What good is wisdom if I have not the authority to make my plans come to pass?" Her eyes grew damp with anger. "I see now that I am a child, Ganondorf. A child with nothing. Once, I believed I could have saved them. I thought myself stronger than I am." Her hands shook. "I regret my actions. Had I known... Had I known this is what you faced, I would not have so quickly condemned you."

He felt a smile forming its way onto his face, but she bit her lip and jabbed a finger at him. "Still, it does not condone your actions! What good is it to raze one kingdom to save another? Suffering remains in the world, and the cycle of destruction continues." She bowed her head. "I suppose... I suppose I simply do not know how to stop it."

He laughed, and her head flew up as she looked at him incredulously. Leaning in, he murmured, "A noble wish, little princess, but a futile one. If there were no suffering the entire world would fall into chaos to right the balance. You see proof of it here and now." He bared his teeth. "How arrogant of you, to wish to restore this world only to doom it in the process."

She pressed her lips together. "Then what am I to do?"

He laughed again. "I'm sorry, that sounded terribly like a plea for help."

Zelda glared. "So be it." Her face softened into a look of desperation. "Please, Ganondorf. Help me save my people. Help me make amends."

He was silent. At last he replied almost scornfully, "Why should I? What will you do when your people are safe? Put me in chains to ensure their well-being? Or shall you have me executed, for the ceremony of it?"

She struggled with this. "I will not," she said at last. "Once my kingdom is restored you will be free to go." She swallowed. "You have my word."

He laughed for the final time and extended an arm to her. "Very well. You're damn lucky I'm bored enough to accept."

She wavered for a moment, before taking his hand. "Then it's a deal."

.

.

.

There was something refreshing about raiding again; perhaps it was something in his blood, but the thrill of it inevitably sent something primal and furious reeling in his veins. Here, he was more alive than he'd been in a long time. Here, he almost felt the old sparks of power in the spaces between his fingers.

Of course, this time it was different; this time Zelda was at his side, her face dark with resolve, and she clutched a bow in her hands. She'd carved it herself under his direction. It wasn't as powerful as a gun, to be sure, but one could hardly make one of those homemade; and bullets were scarce. Besides, this, at least, was something familiar to her, readying her bow to pierce the heart of a scoundrel so that her kingdom could be safe.

"Are you ready?" he murmured almost imperceptibly, his eyes fixed on the enemy camp in the distance. It was dark, and firelight flickered on the dim horizon, casting distorted shadows across the heart of the city.

Zelda nodded but did not answer; she was wise, after all, to know the need for absolute silence. If all went according to Ganondorf's plan she'd soon be in control of a formidable group of bandits, which could be used to help her take control of other groups, and eventually, other countries. Taking out the leader took guts and skill, but they'd been training for this moment for months, and if she was capable enough to (almost) defeat Ganondorf, she would be more than ready for this.

He checked his gauntlets (also homemade) and signalled for her to move out. It was now or never.

She flitted like a shadow from street to street, keeping to dark corners and never staying too long in one place. Every now and then she'd take aim and eliminate a guard or two, with Ganondorf hurrying to where the man fell to move the unconscious body to a more discreet location. Before long they were nearing the heart of the camp.

Taking refuge in a crumbling building, they stopped for a breath. Ganondorf checked the perimeter before turning to her. "Ready?"

She clung to her bow, eyes closed. "Is it weird that I really, really want some fudge right now? And peanut butter. It feels like I haven't had peanut butter in years."

"If that's what you wanted I could have kidnapped a candy maker for you," Ganondorf muttered. "Or maybe we should ask the bandit king, I'm sure he has some."

"No," she opened her eyes. "I guess I'm just nervous. I"—she licked her lips—"I've never had to kill anyone before."

"Not even me?" He raised an eyebrow.

She shook her head. "That was always Link."

"Of course." He huffed and turned back to the vantage point to watch for any guards.

She was quiet. Finally Ganondorf turned and muttered, "I know there's more. Spit it out."

Not meeting his eyes, Zelda whispered, "What if I can't do it?"

He smacked her jaw lightly on instinct. "Never doubt yourself. That's the first step to failing."

She looked shocked, one hand rising to touch the spot he'd hit her, but then her expression steeled and she exhaled deeply to calm herself. "Alright."

He regarded her before giving the closest thing he knew to an inspirational speech. "Nayru chose you to rule for a reason. Now go put an arrow between that bastard's eyes before I do it for you."

She nodded, letting that familiar resolve flood her gaze, and they crept toward the fire.

The heart of the camp was a messy, raucous place. Sagging couches and frayed lawn chairs circled a blazing bonfire, each holding a bandit or two. The leader reclined on what was probably the bishop's chair from the cathedral, though any religious imagery had been carved out. Ganondorf knew that sniping the leader from here would lead to an all-out brawl with his underlings before they accepted defeat. He grinned; that was exactly what he'd been itching for.

He touched her shoulder once, the signal, and moved so his back was to hers, in order to keep watch. He could feel her heart pounding like a rabbit's, but she lifted her bow.

There was the creak of the bowstring being stretched taut, then she let the arrow fly.

.

.

.

Two years later, she returned, triumphant, to their base. Seeing her enter, Ganondorf rose from his seat (they'd pilfered the bandit leader's chair for their own, as a trophy of that first successful raid).

"What are you smiling for?" he demanded, though a similar expression split his lips upon seeing her. "Did you finally take my advice?"

She grimaced. "To rip out his heart and eat it? Goddesses, no. We won the treaty, is all."

"Of course you did," he said, and sat again. "What did I tell you? Barrage someone's country for long enough and they'll give you anything."

She smiled broadly. "With this treaty, we'll have enough resources to restart the aid programs." Her smile dimmed. "It's a shame so many had to suffer for it, but if things go as you say they will everything will find its own balance in the end."

"The Goddesses chose us for a reason, didn't they?" Ganondorf muttered, crossing his arms.

"I suppose so."

They were silent for a moment. Finally Ganondorf spoke.

"So, this is it."

"What?" She looked at him in surprise.

He leaned forward in his seat. "You don't need me anymore. You're well on your way to getting your kingdom back on track. Hell, you don't even need me to kill people for you anymore. What's the point of me staying?"

She was shocked, and then she was saddened. "I did say you'd be free to go when it was all over, didn't I?"

"Gave me your word, in fact." He nodded at her.

"Yes." She bowed her head, closing her eyes, then looked back up at him. "But the kingdom is not yet restored. Surely you must remain yet."

He shrugged. "I've done more for you than you have for me. I think I've covered my end of the deal."

"Then I still owe you," she replied in earnest. "Certainly you can't go unless I complete my end of the bargain."

"You didn't have an end of the bargain," he growled. "It was barely a bargain at all. You just asked for my help and I was bored enough to say yes. Now I'm bored again. What's stopping me from leaving this time?"

"I suppose I can't keep you from going if you've completed your end of the deal." She steeled herself and drew closer. "But I have a proposition for you; perhaps we shall resolve the old deal and construct a new one." She smiled a bit nervously, tilting her head. "If you promise to remain, you will be my equal in ruling the world we have restored. I will care for you every day of my life. You will be given authority over the realm, and will be crowned at my side. What say you?"

He threw back his head and laughed, deeply. "I'm sorry, that sounded an awful lot like a marriage proposal."

She smiled. "Perhaps it is."

"You're damn lucky I'm bored enough to accept."

She held out her hand, and he took it, not wavering for a moment.

"Then it's a deal."

.

.

.

* * *

 **A/N: So I got my Ganondorf amiibo yesterday and was struck with the compulsion to do a Ganondorf story, which of course led to ZelGan. I'm pretty new to this pairing (*cough cough* I blame you JimmyDANj2) so this is anything but perfect, but I owed you something, didn't I?**

 **Seriously, sorry for the wait. This was a hard one to write. I guess I hate the word "thrilled," doesn't leave enough room for angst. But I managed to work around it.**

 **Anyway, let me know what you think. Of the pairing, the characterization, anything. Reviews are, as always, much appreciated!**

 **Your friend,**

 **godtierGrammarian**

 **p.s. Did you recognize this story, with its new cover? I was getting tired of the old one, and this one fits the current prompt better, I think. Should I keep changing the cover every now and then or do you want the old one back? Let me know!**


	6. intermezzo: what was left

**{** **-— intermezzo: what was left.** **—** **\- }**

 **{** -— _some things you just can't erase._

a look at life after the mirror broke. **}**

* * *

 _-_ —-

 _what they didn't know was that the wolf howled not at the moon,_

 _ephemeral as it was in its changing face;_

 _but at the stars that glimmered distantly_

 _with shards of twilight's fire, eternally out of reach._

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.

.

He comes home for the first time in a month, returning to his little treehouse only long enough to sip restlessly at a cup of tea. Ilia pretends not to notice when he slips a bottle of some strange red-or-sometimes-blue liquid from his pouch and mixes a few drops of its contents in with the tea in one of her mother's fragile, porcelain cups. She pretends not to notice the scars peppering his skin, common as freckles. She pretends not to notice the exhaustion and the pain and the darkness gleaming, feral, in his blue eyes.

She pretends she doesn't feel so hurt when he barely acknowledges her long enough to mutter a curt goodbye before rising from his chair and disappearing again.

Still, as soon as he's gone, she releases her bottled-up emotion, snatches the teapot, raises it above her head, and smashes it into the floor.

She is done with pretending.

.

.

.

He rides for hours that night, cutting through the fields towards the Bridge of Eldin, where he jumps the crumbled fences and wooden barricades by moonlight. The wind screams in his ears and attempts to snatch his hat, but he holds tight to the green material and refuses to feel the exhilaration the jumps once held for him.

His heart beats in someone else's chest, beyond a shattered mirror, in someone else's land covered in perpetual twilight.

.

.

.

Midna ignores it when a golden triangle appears on her hand the day after she arrives home. Likewise, she ignores the whispers of power in her dreams and the ache in her chest that threatens to overwhelm her. This is a gift stolen from the land of her ancestors, a boon that she does not deserve.

She wears gloves from that day on, drugs her evening tea with herbs to help her sleep dreamlessly through the night.

Still, she can't help but notice that her palace feels more and more like a prison with every passing hour.

.

.

.

Colin can't help but feel a strange sadness every time the sun begins to dip low in the sky. It's almost tangible in the air, the breeze carrying it; he feels its touch as the wind whisks his cheek. As dusk's golden hour approaches, he sits by the spring and lets the water lick his toes as twilight's sorrow beads on his skin.

For the first time, Colin begins to understand Link's pain.

.

.

.

Zelda stands at the window, looking out.

The captain of the guard just committed suicide. The townspeople are in a frenzy, and more than once she has heard snippets of passing conversations, "I wonder whatever happened to that dapper young swordsman who used to pass through every now and then. Don't you think he'd be a good captain? Better than our men, that's for certain. Oh, I do wonder why the princess seems so pale lately."

She appoints the new captain in the morning, a good man with a family, and she tries to keep her thoughts from the maddening grayscale dreams that haunt her sleepless nights.

Some things you just can't erase.

.

.

.

Malo spends evenings counting rupees and trying to get that damn shop tune out of his head. Sometimes he wonders whether he ought to repay Link for all the donations that enabled him to make his big break, but no matter how hard his people search, the swordsman is nowhere to be found.

When night falls he wanders to the empty space where the STAR tent used to be - the conman who ran it went bankrupt long ago, and now the city's cat population tends to meet there. He watches the cats mingle and remembers simpler times, when a slingshot was big news and home was a little house with a waterwheel and a dog.

He's no fool. He knows better than anyone that you can't go back.

You can never go back.

.

.

.

* * *

 **A/N: Hey, guess who's finally back after falling off the face of the earth?**

 **Sorry for the long wait, guys. I backed myself into a corner with these prompts, and I was dealing with some Life Stuff that made it hard to find time to crack my writer's block. With luck, I'll be back in the swing of things soon. For now, here's a few scraps I've scrounged up for you.**

 **Stay tuned!**

 **With love,**

 **godtierGrammarian**


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